


Things that Creep in the Night

by Laetitia_Laetitii



Category: Runescape
Genre: Gen, Mahjarrat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6333355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laetitia_Laetitii/pseuds/Laetitia_Laetitii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Desert Treasure, Wahisietel has a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things that Creep in the Night

             Night had fallen over the Kharidian Desert. While a last trace of gold lingered over the western horizon, the stars were beginning to come out across the sky, cold and clear and sharp. In the rapidly cooling ground beetles scuttled out of their burrows and long-eared foxes stalked their prey between the rocks.

             In Nardah, an ancient town of mudbrick and dust, the only lights burned in the last house to the north. It stood slightly apart from the others, its walls bleached by the sun and hewn smooth by hundreds of years of sandy winds. In its small windows, the shutters were slightly ajar to let out a faint, flickering glow.

            Inside the house, in the larger of the two rooms, a man sat at a table going through a stack of letters. When he had finished reading one, he would put it aside and jot a few notes on the beautiful, hand-drawn map of Gielinor in front of him. Then he would break the wax seal on the next one and immerse himself in its contents, studying carefully the strange, sharp-angled characters of a forgotten tongue.

            While he concentrated on reading, he remained peripherally aware of many things around him. He could hear the chirping of the crickets outside, and the crackle of coals in the brazier on the floor. He could see the tiny, orange lizard that darted across the walls, and the grey-winged moths who flapped about the oil-lamp, casting twitching shadows on his map.

            At the edge of his consciousness he could perceive other beings too, though he could neither see nor hear them. They were simply presences, indescribable in human terms. He knew them all by name, and as they moved around the world, he never ceased to be aware of them. Three far up in the frozen north. Two in the farthest west. A familiar one up in Morytania, wavering as its emitter played in the shadows. As the man at the table was aware of the presences, he knew that they were all likewise aware of him. It was not a comforting thought, but it was one he was used to.

            Done with yet another report, he dipped a quill in the inkwell and added a mark in the mountains bordering the Wilderness. He began to label it, but paused mid-sentence to pick up the scroll again. It made little sense, and unpredictable movement almost always foretold trouble. He put down both letter and quill, and leaned back to brush his grey hair out of his eyes. Whatever all this meant, it could not be good.

            The sensation was sudden. His shoulders tensed, and the small hairs on the back of his neck stood up. No feet could be glimpsed above the threshold, no fists rapped on the dry wood, but he was not alone. The presence was weak, but seemed to grow gradually stronger, as if something was being put back together. Without a sound the grey-haired man rose from his chair to slip out of the door. Oblivious to the bitter cold he walked out to the sand dunes, and up to the crest of the nearest hill.

     From the peak he could see the roofs of Nardah, and the starlight glittering on the meandering Elid. He could see the silhouettes of the mountains of the Kharidian Range, and at its end the lights of Pollnivneach, a town that never slept. All sights he had seen countless times before, with a single aberration, exactly where he had expected to find it. To the west, somewhere far beyond the river, an unnatural red glow hung where heaven and earth met. The presence burned at the same spot, its identity unmistakeable.

            The man stood still until the wind made his eyes water. Then he turned around, and followed his own tracks back to the house at the edge of town. His every move was calm and precise as he took a long clay pipe from a box on the table and loaded it with tobacco. He picked up a pair of tongs and chose a smouldering piece of coal from the tripod, blowing on it gently. When the flame rekindled, he touched it to the leaves in the bowl, allowing the first fire to go out before relighting. Stem stuck fast in the corner of his mouth, he sat down at the table and extinguished the lamp. The man leaned back in his chair, and drawing long, slow mouthfuls of smoke, he waited.

            Hours passed, and the light went out from both pipe and brazier. The presence, which until now had stayed put vanished, only to reappear somewhere on the west bank of the Elid. The next flash took it over the river. Then Pollnivneach Bridge. The old gold quarry. The rift. A few minutes passed, and the man could hear every beat of his own human heart. Then the presence cleared the last mile, and materialised outside his house. Dragging steps. Groping at the handle. Hinges creaked, and something stole in unseen. Something large and ragged and inhuman that brought with it the smell of dry earth and old, hidden places. The door slammed shut behind it, and the thing crawled past him in the dark, disappearing into the bedroom.

            For a long time Wahisietel sat at his desk, listening to the hoarse breathing. No other sounds came, but the smell of tombs and dust lingered in the air. At length he rose from his seat, and went from window to window, shutting and barring each. Then he refilled and lit the oil lamp, and picking it up, walked over to the doorway.

            The thing had crawled to the furthest corner behind the bed where it huddled on the floor, knees drawn to its chest. Seemingly unaware of him, it hung its head, rocking on the spot and shivering as if in a fever. It let out little whimpers with every laboured exhale, heedless of who might hear it. The withered hands were never still, but kept scratching at the bony arms, looking for the lost flesh. The talons themselves were cracked, as if it had desperately clawed at something unyielding. There was nothing but torn rags left of its clothes, and Wahisietel could catch sight of dry, colourless skin stretching over the ribcage, thin as parchment, flaking and peeling. The eyes in the deep sockets glowed yellow, staring straight ahead, unseeing and unblinking.

            “Azzanadra?”

            The creature’s head whipped up. Fixing its eyes at Wahisietel, it opened its jaws to bare sharp teeth and dried tongue, letting out a long, guttural growl. Not yet. Without another word, he backed out, leaving his visitor be. A frightened Mahjarrat was no better than an injured wild animal, and you gave both a wide berth for the same reason.

            There was nothing to do but wait, and so he sat down and returned to his reports.

            It was near dawn when he heard again from the next room. The whimpering had stopped, and something stirred in the darkness. Suddenly, the long-cold brazier shuddered and shot across the floor. There was the sound of cloth being ripped, and then of frantic scrubbing, claws screeching on bronze as they grabbed handful after handful of ash. Ink dried on his quill while he stared at the map and counted under his breath. When the call came, it was quite and inarticulate, as if the owner of the voice had forgotten how to speak.

                Azzanadra had not left the floor, but seemed to have collected himself. He had rubbed the worst of the flaking skin off his face with the ashes, and plain gray robes covered the rest of his withered body. He looked up as Wahisietel entered, but said nothing. Neither one of them spoke for some time but simply eyed each other warily, assessing the situation and it risks. Azzanadra opened his mouth once, then again, trying to form words with his stiff, withered tongue.

                “How long?” Freneskaean. “How long was I—?”

                Better get it out of the way.

                “Six thousand years.”

                Azzanadra seemed to contemplate this for a moment, letting the information sink in.

                “Human didn’t recognize the names,” he said finally. “Paddewwa. Lassar. Annakarl.”

                “All long gone, them and the rest of the Empire,” Wahisietel said. There was no gentle way to break some news.

                “I can’t feel the others. How many are we?” There had been a hundred of them left at the Betrayal, a few less by the time Jaldraocht happened. The systematic hunting down of the other side had only started later in the war.

                “You and I,” Wahisietel counted, “My brother and Jhallan for what they’re worth. Zemouregal, Lucien, Hazeel, and that boy of Palkeera’s on the other side.” Pause. “They think I’m one of them.” A skull cannot smile, but the eyes flickered.

                “Has there been contact?” Azzanadra did not look up as he said it, but studied his broken talons as if he knew the answer already and did not want to hear it.

                “No.” Better get it all out. “They razed Senntisten. Before the evacuees left, they destroyed the portal. No-one has attempted it since.”

                Wahisietel had feared Azzanadra’s reaction, but he simply nodded, resigned. Tired and dejected, ashamed to have been seen in such a weak and dirty state. The rage would come later, when he had the strength for it.

                “You mentioned a human,” Wahisietel said.

                “Let me out,” Azzanadra explained. “Don’t know why or who. Not Zarosian.” He paused again, as if trying to remember something. “They put my body inside the floor,” he continued flatly. “I got it out. Sensed you.” Story exhausted, Azzanadra said no more.

                There were other questions, but they could wait. The two of them sat at the opposite ends of the room, facing each other in silence. Azzanadra seemed to be drifting out again, eyes losing focus, shoulders going slack. Wahisietel watched him impassively, and mentally began to arrange a list in his head. The War. The fall of Senntisten. Forinthry. The Extermination. The Edicts. The civil war of their tribe. What became of the temple and its artefacts. The novel discipline humans called  _archaeology,_ and how it might help them. The set for the fast-approaching Ritual.

                As Azzanadra sank into a healing sleep, Wahisietel got up and quietly let himself out. The dawn was breaking already, and the last stars were fading from the sky. He made his way up the dune once more, treading where the wind had erased his footprints. Below him, Nardah slept. The Elid ran on, her crocodiles dreaming among the papyrus reeds. Far away, a weak, red halo still marked the pyramid. All over Gielinor the presences of Mahjarrat were shifting, the one in his house stayed still.  _Sensed you,_ Wahisietel thought to himself.  _Sensed me, and you never thought that in six thousand years I might have switched sides._

               Turning his back to Jaldraocht, he walked along the length of the crest, still deep in thought. He knew what Azzanadra would proceed to try, and he knew exactly in how many ways it could go lethally wrong. Where it would all end, no-one could tell.

              At the end of the ridge he stopped in his tracks, and paused to watch as the sun rose out of the Eastern Sea. The light was spreading fast now, shattering over the waves, rendering one side of each crest golden, the other sapphire-dark. Somewhere in the distance, a lone kite was circling over the water, its shape silhouetted against the weakly glowing sky. It was a sight he had seen countless times during his forty years in Nardah, and one he had first witnessed back when the shores were green. Peace had always been a temporary matter in his life, and was now coming to an end once more. If he had one morning’s or a few days’ worth of it left, it was better to use the time well, and prepare for what was ahead. Taking one last look at the silvery, shimmering sea Wahisietel turned away, and went back home.


End file.
